The Executioner's Song
by ThyHeavenlyYard
Summary: Accounts on life before, and after, Moonless meeting.
1. Prefazione

**0. Nothing More Just and Comforting**

"In this tale I wrote for you,

You can fly in freedom.

Let me cast this final spell,

So your light may not know the darkness."

"Ricordando il passato", Akiko Shikata

* * *

Expectation is the fallacy of those who have not realized the significance of their current being.

Routine's the same, although invariably with small alternations each day. Morning, bathe in the presence of a thousand paper cranes for a wish you want granted with absolute certainty, burn the rosemary scented candles and run your fingers through the unburning flames, that wet and warm liquid of rebirth, singe your hair and melt away the rust colored stains until only a pure fool's gold is left.

Shh, I love you.

Kiss her fervently in the light of a rosy pink dawn, in a virginal room dripping of cooled saccharine, jump out of the sky in your chromium armor, make your descent down onto a honey lathered earth packed with dirt, dirt, dirt, the very essence which life spins its harmonics and kiss the ground once, twice, three times before raising your arms up to proclaim your sins out onto the world. Decay, crumble and disintegrate to ash, to illusions, and surrender yourself into deception which you have spun in an elegant waltz of painstaking choreography.

Shh, I love you.

Let her strike your face, know that she shares the force of her small palm against her own tiny features, entangle your limbs together and nestle your chin on her shoulders and sleep the blissful death, die the death. Kiss her every daybreak, every twilight, every sunset, pin her down against the soft mattress and let her trace a stairway down the contours of your face, letting the tip of her finger shove against the soft flesh between your angular collarbones.

"Dead," she murmurs, a laugh breaking out from underneath the seriousness. You laugh with her. She wants you to laugh.

"Dead."

She'll be the one to kill you.

The mornings are the same, with only a small variation. Rest in the blaze of afternoon, catnap, stretch, and doze again with her piled on your chest like some newborn kitten. Dream of the night, where stars with an iridescent glimmer offer the allure of paradise, embroider the despair nestled in every fiber of your being with strength, and roll over and return to normalcy to the sight of her disturbingly pleased face. Fangs bared, femurs sharpened in ecstasy.

You know your expression mirrors hers.

It's a witch hunt, a hunt for prey, a hunt in darkness for weaker monsters to eviscerate, to gut and draw out secrets like an intellectual rapist. It pleases you, to see those weaker than you to flee; the chase is only pleasing if the intellect of the hunted can rival the executioners and the mirage coordinators, who seek only those who are outside the reach of the governing law. The game of masking and deception and toying, of quickened heartbeats and slight moans of pleasure stroke only the boundaries of unfettered delight at the sight of emotions outpacing reason, and of reason overcoming the human limitations of fear. It's only the kill that leaves you disgusted with the outcome.

It's always the same

It's always the same.

She has memorized the name of every person whom she had butchered.

Fly home, celestial beings, gods in the universe of your own choosing, an universe which requires two to begin. Nothing defies your rest, nothing has more strength than you, here, in the paradise shaped by turbulent lusts. Your power lies within uncertainty; you cannot be defeated, for nothing is absolute but her love for you, your love for her. Every measured note of this operetta thrills with the hum of melancholy, and the final trumpet sounds its horn to the fall of velvet curtains. You would never have it any other way- this burning of the Phoenix is the only way to heal your corrupted heart. It's the only way to heal hers. Your Hades is perfect.

Sleep in peace, my dear. Spin more of those ambrosia illusions of yours, golden spun balm with the lingering taste of nectar.

Sic transit gloria of the fucking world.

* * *

_A/N: An idea I was toying with for quite a time_


	2. Tragédie Lyrique

**1. In the Place of Justice, Wickedness Was There**

"A face devoid of love or grace,

A hateful, hard, successful face,

A face with which a stone

Would feel as thoroughly at ease

As were they old acquaintances—

First time together thrown."

"101. A face devoid of love or grace," Emily Dickinson

* * *

The most common form of punishment she had undergone was a test of endurance. Pedestrian in nature, found in many households and yet still such an effective tried-and-true way of conveying a message; she would be forced to remain locked within a dark closet for hours on end. No food, no water. No pleading allowed; a single sound would mean another hour.

Within that immeasurable amount of time, she would be able to reflect unobtrusively, wordlessly. An eternity to internalize her pain and stabilize her being, condense herself into the limited mass of a small girl, of age three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

So for Gomon, these quiet times weren't the punishment her parents believed they were. The best thoughts happened in silence, where the only noises that could be heard was the gentle slide of cloth against skin, skin against wood, the constant thrumming of her heart and bated breath. She could never capture the exact sensations into words, the thrill and hum of each needle prick of lightning-quick electricity running up and down her body in delicate, choreographed programming, the licentious chill of murderous anticipation and of delight and of fear and of a faint hope, those dissimilar and subtle changes and unrepeatable existence that occurred with every thought and every small shift in her movement, her breath so carefully drawing in wisps of air- thousand and billions of atoms all intermingling within her body, drawing out her awareness to spread out and past the closed doors and into a vibrant impression of comfort; no, these feelings were best when experienced alone. Her mother, when she finally unlatched the doors, would be greeted with the little girl curled in a ball, cheeks against her knees, staring hollowly into another world altogether. No tears. She rarely cried. The darkness had become her friend, had always been her constant. Safe, warm, enveloping her on all sides in a protective blanket.

It's about 6 pm, with the waning sunlight still feebly throwing light through the slips between the curtained glass of her window, refracting and reflecting the color gold across her room, across her hands and warming her back. Mikado's sitting at the edge of a bed, recently freed from the closet, quietly perusing a novel when an unobtrusive knock sounds at the door. A quiet "Excuse me" is followed by a newer maid hesitantly entering the room, a bouquet of blue and purple in one arm, a small white envelope tucked within the center of the corsage.

"Flowers for you, miss."

From Seimei, the card shares. A shame she had to miss out on their planned outing. But she wouldn't be too busy tomorrow, correct? He would prefer if she contact him if she intended to miss out again. He hopes she feels better. Mikado marks her page with a small ribbon and takes the bundle into her arms; blue salvias and forget-me-nots, morning glories and heather and a single iris. She recognizes their meanings. The back of the attached message reads that the flowers were on sale. Neat penmanship has crossed out the 1200 yen tab and scrawled underneath the number 200. Impossibly cheap. Mikado closes her eyes.

"Thank you. You may leave."

The maid closes the door as she slips out, and the ten year old falls back onto her bed, still tightly hugging the flowers to her chest. Some spill out of the wrapping, falling into her face, but she hardly cares. She stares up to the ceiling, staring at into an infinite abyss beyond the clean white, stares at an eternity of thoughts. Legs, still dangling a few inches from the ground, kick aimlessly.

Seimei-san has bought her flowers, flowers that were on sale. Seimei has sent her flowers, reprimanding her for her negligence, although it was a situation mostly out of her control. But that's no matter; better to take the blame, if only to strength her resolve to become even more perfect than she already is. She's incandescently happy with this small reminder that she is needed. Entangled in her hair are whispers of admiration, embroidering her neck are traces of affections, and the light kisses of "I'm thinking of you" and "Don't forget me" tickle her face. He thought of her. That's enough. She's delighted that her existence and efforts has been acknowledged.

The closet has taken much out of her physically. She closes her eyes, wiggles the rest of her body onto bed, and rolls across the sheets with one end pinched between her fingers, cocooning herself and the flowers inside several layers of blankets. The advent of spring has lessened the chill of winter, but temperatures outside still remain cold. The heating system is not as effective in her room as in the rest of her home.

Fingers curl in her in hair, face is scrunched up against the blossoms. She sleeps. She'll wake up before midnight, and she'll get ready then. She knows he's reliable enough to be there when he comes, she knows he's not too angry. The flowers are proof to justify her belief.

She'll get something for him, her friend.

A smile, barely containing her pleasure, adorns her face. Her friend.

Her friend.

くコ:彡

Mikado wakes, startled into alertness by the sense of falling. Still wrapped among the thick layers of blankets, she rubs the grains of sleep from her eyes, letting out a prolonged yawn before tumbling from her bed. She remains sprawled on the floor, cocooned and unwilling to do much but lay on the floor like some misshapen caterpillar. The bouquet, crushed and withering and drooping pitifully, had been pried from her hands while she had been sleeping and placed into a vase—presumably by one of the servants. Mikado can't imagine her parents performing that act of kindness. After a few more minutes of internal groaning, she wiggles out of her nest and stumbles over to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She's careful to keep the sound of running tap water from disturbing her parents, separated from her by just a thin wall.

She's never really felt refreshed after a nap. Always dead tired after long hours of sleep, but she suppresses the urge to roll back into her tempting sheets and skip the events carefully planned in her schedule. She turns her eyes upwards to check her duck shaped clock as she runs her comb through her pink hair. Seven hours of rest. Not too bad; almost close to a proper sleep—oh, but she's overslept by an hour. Not late for their planned meeting time, but too late to stop by choice stores and buy what she wanted to buy for Seimei.

She's ten, turning eleven in a month. She wonders if she'll ever pass her hundred and thirty nine centimeters height. Mikado hopes that someone will give her the Starsha figurine she has been wanting for a bit of time. Not sure why she would admire a regretful woman; no, Mikado knows why- that character had died with dignity.

A ping of some unknown emotion rebounds within her heart.

She lives in a well to do neighborhood, so she's not afraid of dressing in a rather slipshod fashion and slipping out of the house alone. It's hard to scare her in darkness, even as she turns away into more unfamiliar streets. God kept Daniel safe in the den of lions by sending down an angel from heaven to keep monsters at bay. The characters forming her name have the protection of heaven's blessings, a divine right passed down to emperors. Written twice, double the effectiveness. A special charm, just for her; proof that she will always be guarded from harm. (At least, she tries to convince herself that this is the case, despite how her native country's beliefs contrast with the Western concepts of deities. She needs some leverage against those who like to tease her about her name.)

Her tail waves in tune to the melody of the patter of her sneakers against the pavement, to the rhythm of her keys swinging from the clips on her belt. The cool solidifies her breathing, creating icy fragments whenever she allows a silent huff of aggravation to speak for her thought; although she's moving at a quick fox trot, she's displeased that the distance keeps her still a ways off from her destination. Seimei is her friend, she reminds herself—a person worthy of exertion on her part—and they both had agreed to meet each other halfway; equal effort by both parties to communicate with each other.

Well, she is younger. Maybe she would dare to complain to him, although the thought of the appreciation that the older male even bothered to speak with her is already something she had never contemplated when she had first heard of his name—had been too much to ask; the offer of comradeship itself is a sort of miracle unto itself. To complain about an extra ten minute walk would be pushing her privileges.

No room for aimless thoughts. She shakes her head slightly, and bundles her hair carelessly underneath the woolen beanie she brought. The earmuffs are next, securing the hat onto her head. Seimei had asked to meet with her, and she's able to feel the hum of excitement in her chest, the slight nervous clenching in her stomach that she may not live up to his expectations.

くコ:彡

They both stand outside, in a large grassy field embroidering the dirt roads and drainage system. She doesn't ask any questions as to why he had called her out to this place, despite his open ended glance offering up a chance for her to speak her thoughts. The girl restrains herself, just for the moment; if answers are forthcoming, then she needed not to inquire. Instead, she speaks in a different direction.

"Are you hungry?"

"Not particularly."

"Oh." Her demeanor doesn't change, but Seimei notes the slight slump in her shoulders.

"What did you bring?"

She looks up hopefully.

"Nothing much, just snacks I was hiding from my parents-"

"Let's see them." His voice is light, almost cheery and familiar; friendly and cordial, he's asking her to relax in his presence. She knows that her presented anxiety is unceremonious, but she can't help but to be nervous when she has no instructions on how to deal with the phenomena of comradeship.

They still haven't broached the main subject yet.

She blinks a few times, before shrugging off her knapsack in tense, tight movements. She squats as she does so, concealing the contents of her bag from his view with her upper body. She looks up once more, and with a pettish pout on her face, brings out a bag of potato chips.

"I'm going to eat them by myself if you're not hungry," she mutters defensively. "They were for me only, anyways."

"Won't you get fat if you eat greasy foods at a time like this?"

"Nagisa-sensei told me pretty girls don't get fat." She pulls the bag open from the top, and hugs the package to her chest, still keeping it away from the male. Her ears press down against the base of her skull defensively. "She says only old men like Minami-sensei need to stop eating salty foods."

"What, am I old?"

Mikado nods once, determinedly, before deliberately grabbing a chip and chomping down with an audible crunch. "You're not allowed to eat any, because you're in middle school already." Rambling. She's being serious about not sharing, and doesn't see why he's still smiling in that patronizing fashion. Formal nervousness is replaced by irritation—_ah. _A small part of her realizes that he's acting in such an annoying way to chase away her tension. Her ears spring back up as she dwells more on that thought.

"Fine." He shifts his weight to one leg.

"Nn-" Silence. "Okay, one."

The fourteen year old grabs two.

"I said _one_!"

"Sagan-san lied. Little girls like you are most susceptible to chubbiness if you eat a lot of salty foods. Old men like me can eat whatever they like."

"You're lying."

"Am not. You can check anywhere and find I'm right."

"No way."

"It's fine if you don't believe me-"

"I believe you!" She says it quickly. Her face is flushed with embarrassment. She doesn't want to speak any more on this subject. "You can have more, if you like!"

"Then-" Three this time.

Mikado crinkles her nose, before breaking out into small, stifled laughter. "Seimei-san can be silly sometimes."

He pulls a small frown. "Really, now?"

"Heh."

"Do you know why I wanted to meet up with you?" The query is sudden, freezing her soft giggles. "Think for a little. Don't give me just a 'no'."

The anxiety slams back into place, but she tries to grasp onto the warmth she had briefly felt when he had joked around for her sake. He's waited twice for her in the past twenty four hours; she has missed out on previous meetings on separate occasions, different days, but he had called her on those instances to forget about them, that there would be other times when they could communicate in person and that she should recuperate. He knows about the closet. Today is different, today he wanted her to see him. He hadn't told her to stay home, but rather forced onto her the guilt of forgetting their outing.

Important. She understands that, had understood that from the moment he had sent those flowers. Important- but not too urgent; he had let her recover enough to walk, but hadn't given her a full day. A matter that has a time limit, an expiration date.

It couldn't involve any other members of the Septimal Moons, not at this time of the night. Still under the tutelage of her seniors, Mikado still is kept from the full responsibilities and privileges granted to the six other members, but she's aware of how most of their schedules run through the complaints they make and the small orders they gave her: prepare black tea for Sagan when she's flustered over an equation she couldn't put together, run copies of documents for Minami during rush hour when the secretaries are too busy (despite how Mikado complained about being too short to reach the buttons on the tall machines), buy cup ramen for Seven when she's pulling an all night- the repetition of such requests helped Mikado to form some knowledge of how life at Septimal Moons operated. None of them- except Chouma, possibly, would be involved with the two youngest members. But the paraplegic is a wild card in Gomon's mind; the child isn't sure where the capricious woman's loyalties lie. Mikado secretly hopes that Kio's not as important to Seimei as she is.

But then what? Mikado only became affiliated with Seimei through the organization; she heavily doubts that fate would have granted her meeting if it wasn't for the fact that her bloodline was special. She had first been inducted into the organization at age nine, but the beginning visits had been few and far between the first year- only enough to recognize the six faces and numbers with which she needed to acquaint herself: Aoyagi, one. Kio, two. Minami, three. Herself, four. Sagan, five. Kunugi, six. Saotome, who refused to be addressed by her real name, seven. Age ten was when she was able to attend more frequent visits into Goura, ten was when she began to learn of the duties expected of her.

Her role in the Septimal Moons is fairly unusual; her thinking must be a graceful link of research and imagination. They had explained to her that she was still too young to participate in fieldwork; children have a hard time comprehending the significance of others, and especially at her age as a soon-to-be adolescent. But she could practice, she could review and try to make instinct what she already knew, and internalize classical stratagems and maneuvers that could be memorized out of textbooks.

After all, executioners had to understand the value of a life before ending one. They told her that at age ten, and left her wondering what- _how_ she was do what they told her, how she was supposed to deconstruct the personalities and habits of others, before setting out to kill. A vast helpless gulf seemed to stretch out before her, overcoming even her own whispered declarations of victory over her fundamental humanity. Fear of the future, for the first time in her life, when she was ten.

Ten was when Seimei had begun to talk to her.

Ten was when he smiled, and asked if she needed any help.

Ten was when she nodded, afraid she would stutter.

"You want me to do something for you. A favor, ma—maybe, but it's not that important to you."

"Anything else?"

"There's something alive involved- besides the two of us, I mean."

"And how did you get that conclusion?"

"Because. . . your message seemed to be 'as soon as possible,' but you allowed for a waiting period. It's something that won't last long, and it's probably not ice cream, and, and-. . . the flowers you sent. They're dying, but they were alive. You never gave me flowers before, and you don't do things without a reason-"

"Sh. You don't need to say anymore."

She looks down, and silently traces the dirt with her foot. Waits for the verdict.

"You're right." The silence had been so protracted, she's startled when he speaks up with words of confirmation.

"Ah-" She starts, but freezes when she doesn't know what to say next. She's justified, but-

"I got a Fighter a week ago, so I wanted to demonstrate to you something very important."

She had heard; recalled the blind irritation that Minami had been in for the past few days. Mikado had thought him stupid for his regrets, but refrained from commenting for the fear that she would receive a flying coffee mug in her direction. Even Sagan, insensitively loudmouthed as she was, had shied away from his temper. "What is it?"

"I want to show you exactly how to kill a person."


End file.
